


Bad Liar

by ellipsometry



Series: ✧SASO 2017✧ [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, M/M, Sports Anime Shipping Olympics, extreme pettiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: “But my performance really set the stage for the whole evening.  Or so they say.”“Cute,” Oikawa’s smile is so acidic it could melt steel, “I’ll be closing the show, of course.  Naturally, they want to save the best for last.”prompt: "au where oifuta used to be a power celebrity couple and then they broke up. both of them, being salty, write songs about the other and put them in their new albums. they both become hits and end up attending the same music awards, though they have performances at different times."





	Bad Liar

**Author's Note:**

> [written for SASO bonus round 1!](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9921298&posted=1#cmt10705938)

**JP Celeb News** @jpcelebnews   
BATTLE OF THE BREAK-UP SONGS: The secret performer for tonight’s Japan Record Awards is Oikawa Tooru! Will he and ex-flame Futakuchi Kenji butt heads backstage?

**#TeamTooru** **☆**  @oikqwqs   
i actually kind of feel bad for Futakuchi stans because they have to pretend his incessant wailing actually sounds like singing

**#TEAMKENJI** @futakuchiiis   
OMG my friend is outside the awards venue & saw kenji go up to a girl with a #teamtooru shirt and sign it she was so dumbstruck i’m crying

          @futakuchiiis I love him. WHEN WILL YOUR FAVE.

 

+

 

When Futakuchi sees Oikawa for the first time in nearly a year, it’s in the middle of a career-high performance at the Japan Record Awards.  

Even with the blinding stage lights steered onto his face, Futakuchi can still make Oikawa out in the audience, sitting front and center.  He’s smiling, and Futakuchi is still fluent enough in Oikawa’s expressions to recognize his “ _ I know you’re singing an unflattering break-up song about me, but I’m really quite above it all, and I want everyone to know that” _ face.  What a fucking fake.

But Futakuchi is, as always, a consummate professional.  A performer.  An  _ artist _ .  Seeing Oikawa after all this time definitely  _ doesn’t _ throw him off his game, and he definitely  _ doesn’t  _ flub his final pre-chorus and have to ad-lib some half-hearted runs to cover it up.  Nothing of the sort.

Futakuchi takes a bow after his performance, heads backstage, and pretends not to feel Oikawa’s eyes on his back the entire time.

 

+

 

Even among the chaos backstage, Oikawa looks the same as always -- effervescent, attractive, and unbothered.  At least, until he spots Futakuchi loitering outside his dressing room and their eyes meet.  Then Oikawa looks quite bothered indeed.

Futakuchi is expecting to have some of Oikawa’s bodyguards hustling him out of sight, but Oikawa just sighs, motioning for him to come in, “What do you want, Kenji?”

“Just to say good luck,” Futakuchi says, a bit taken aback.  Maybe he should just take the high road and be friendly, avoid an incident.

Oikawa scoffs.  He’s got his traditional pre-performance cocktail sitting on his dressing table, and he pauses to take a long sip, “Luck is what got you through your own abysmal performance.  I don’t need luck, since I have actual talent.”

Futakuchi is suddenly reminded why he’s never once in his life taken the high road.

“Fair enough,” he says, “Let me at least say happy belated birthday.  You look great, not a day over thirty-eight.”

Oikawa, still a decade from thirty-eight, grips his drink with white knuckles, speaking through gritted teeth, “How very kind of you, Kenji _ -kun _ .  And don’t worry, I’m sure one day you’ll be able to afford a suit that fits correctly.”

Futakuchi rolls his eyes, unbothered by the comment about his ill-fitting awards outfit, or the fact that he still looks somewhat out-of-place at this particular brand of event.  Even after so long in the limelight, Futakuchi is still just a bit too loud, too blunt, too tired of the pretenses and the backstabbing.

“I was thinking about turning them down, you know, when they asked me to open the show,” he says, feigning casualness, “But my performance really set the stage for the whole evening.  Or so they say.”

“Cute,” Oikawa’s smile is so acidic it could melt steel, “I’ll be closing the show, of course.  Naturally, they want to save the best for last.”

“Sure, if anyone is even still tuned in,” Futakuchi tilts his head to the side, “I’ll probably miss it, since I’m leaving now for the Burberry after party.”

Oikawa cackles, “Couldn’t get an invite to the Vogue after party, could you?  They practically begged me.”

“Maybe in your imagination!”

“No, I’ll save my imagination for thinking about  _ you _ begging for my attention,” Oikawa says, “Oh! Or I could just flip through some old texts to see that!”

Futakuchi clenches his jaw, “Is your career so sad that you always have to bring up old shit?”

He’s exaggerating.  Oikawa doesn’t  _ always _ bring up anything.  In fact, when Futakuchi and Oikawa had broken up, amidst speculation and drama and despondent wailing from fans, Oikawa had always politely declined to comment on the split.  Futakuchi, far more bitter about the situation than he had any right to be, was the one who liked to get in jabs and passive aggressive digs.

That was, at least, until Oikawa’s album came out.

“I think the title track really speaks for itself,” Oikawa would say, smile creeping over his face, “ _ Bad Liar -- _ I think we all know someone like that, who uses you and tries to hide it.  I mean,  _ I _ know someone like that, I’m sure you can guess who.”

The tabloids, still reeling from the break up of a pair that had been called the “power couple of the decade,” was salivating for details.  Futakuchi was mostly peeved that Oikawa beat him to the punch on releasing a break-up track.

“Let’s see,” Oikawa scrolls through his phone, clearing his throat and breaking Futakuchi out of his reminiscing, “ _ Tooru, I’ve been thinking about you all day.  It’s driving me crazy that I can’t get you out of my head. _ ”

Futakuchi chokes, “Oikawa, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me--”

He scrambles for the phone, but Oikawa stands up and continues, “ _ Fuck you for making me feel this way.  All I want is your hands on m--  _ Kenji what the fuck!”

There’s a scramble as the two stars tussle over the phone.  Oikawa’s security detail makes a move for Futakuchi, but he slinks away from them, never letting his grip off the phone.  A few of the hair and makeup people are starting to gather to watch them.  Futakuchi couldn’t care less, too focused on upsetting Oikawa in any way he can.

Finally, the phone slips out of their hands, palms sweaty with exertion.  There’s a conspicuous shattering noise as it hits the floor, and one of Oikawa’s makeup artists gasps.

And, because he just can’t help himself, Futakuchi delivers the finishing blow by kicking the phone across the floor, out the door, and into the hallway.  A rack of bedazzled dresses pushed by a group of harried wardrobe assistants runs over it.

The gratification is instant, and even Oikawa dousing Futakuchi with his drink can’t bring him down.  If anything, it feels like a badge of honor.

Futakuchi braces for impact, but Oikawa just waves his security guard away, choosing instead to sneer down at Futakuchi, “You’re as childish as ever, I see.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Futakuchi says, wiping his wet hair out of his eyes.  Some passersby have stopped in the hallway to watch them; he’s sure they both look ridiculous, and that there will be more gossip articles about this encounter than he can count.

Oikawa, jaw tense, nods toward the door, “Whenever you want, you’re welcome to get the fuck out of my sight.”

For some reason, Futakuchi hesitates.  As ridiculous and infuriating and horrible as Oikawa can be… it’s nice seeing him again.  Try as he might, Futakuchi can’t think of anyone else who’s as fun to be around as Oikawa, even when they’re fighting and bitching at each other.

But now just isn’t the time or the place for those kind of revelations.

“As you wish,” Futakuchi says, grabbing Oikawa’s hand in a quick motion and making a show of pressing a kiss to his palm, lips sticky with alcohol.

“Good luck with your performance.”


End file.
